BLASPHEMY
Written on September 30, 2019 (♎︎)
Content Warning: This ficlet contains explicit sex.
Wiegraf grabbed Zalbag hard as he rode him, thumbs tracing the ridges of his hip bones as he pulled him up against his own sweat slick body. Zalbag, who seemed in all their couplings to remain silent for the duration of the act, gave a sharp gasp, panting, and then tried to stifle his breath. It was as if he imagined any sound from him might summon some recording angel to catch them.
"You alright?" Wiegraf asked, stopping inside of him. He reached one hand forward to caress Zalbag's throat and feel the heaving pulse of his fired blood. Leaning slowly against him, he waited, eyes closed, losing himself a moment in the heat of his partner's body.
"Please..." Zalbag said at last.
"Please what?" he hissed in reply. "You can name the crime we're committing, you know?"
Zalbag shuddered, silent as Wiegraf nuzzled the edge of his jaw. The word "crime" seemed to have set him on edge, but he spoke again nevertheless.
"Please fuck me," he asked in a bare whisper. "Please keep fucking me."
He bucked his hips, his own breath hitching as he drew a moan from Zalbag. He wanted more from him still—more than him restless and raw beneath him, more than his plea that some base-born criminal keep rutting into him as though they were animals outside of God's law.
"You enjoying this, Beoulve?" he asked. "Is it pleasant to fall?"
"Yes." The response was still as quiet and subdued as a man might manage.
"Disavow the Saint, then," Wiegraf said, clutching at his neck as if to throttle him. "Set a seal on this sin so its irrevocable."
He kept on—kept on fucking him, kept on whispering pleas to blasphemy. He asked him to deny the proofs of miracles and to refute the sanctity of martyrs. He asked him to think on Ajora, naked and trembling as his disciples lined up to each have their taste of divinity. The thrill of telling Zalbag to further damn himself seemed to inflame them both, and in the escalating rhythm of their bodies, Wiegraf's thoughts drifted unbidden to the white and gold chambers of Mullonde, where he had once signed the articles that severed him from any past he had enjoyed before the Templarate.
When it was finally over and they laid collapsed and spent in that dimly lit room, he tried his best to assure Zalbag that duress could often soften the degree of a mortal sin. Zalbag, who looked pallid and sick in the candlelight, said nothing. Wiegraf told him that if he wanted, he could give him a penance and have done with it.
He was, after all, clergy now.
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